Chapter Thirteen
Clive
“Francesca,” the short, dark-haired woman—clearly Frankie’s mother, judging by the identical dark curls—said as she opened the door.
Without missing a beat, she reached out and dragged Frankie in close, and I just stood back and watched as the two women embraced, Frankie’s tears beginning all over again.
Frankie’s grandmother died just last night, and the entire extended family was gathering at her parents’ house this morning to laugh, cry, eat Greek food and just be together. I expected Frankie to go by herself, but she surprised the hell out of me when she asked me to come with her. And to the funeral, which would be held at the family’s Orthodox church in a few days.
I know it’s not the ideal way to meet my parents, she’d said with a shrug of her slim shoulders, but I don’t want to do this without you by my side.
Frankie’s mother pulled back from her daughter’s embrace and peered up at me with her red, swollen eyes. Her gaze immediately narrowed and her stare turned suspicious as she looked me up and down. She opened her mouth to say something, but before anything came out, Frankie cut in.
“Mom,” she said, threading her arm through mine and lacing our fingers together, making it clear we were a couple. “This is Clive, my—” she paused, as though unsure what to say.
“Boyfriend,” I supplied, and took her small, soft hand in mine. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pallas.”
She stared up at me appraisingly and then her eyes darted back to her daughter. Whatever she was looking for, she must have seen it, because she cracked a small, tired smile.
“I’m Christina, but call me Chris,” she said as she ushered us inside. “All my friends and family do.”
A cacophony of chattering voices greeted us as we wandered into the kitchen and through the dining room and living room. Aunts and uncles and cousins, many of them sporting eyes red from weeping, grabbed Frankie for bear hugs that she welcomed and returned with equal enthusiasm. It was a marvel, honestly, to see this huge, unruly family come together to celebrate a person they all desperately loved. Frankie told me that her grandmother had seven kids, and all of those kids had big families as well.
Finally, after a dizzying array of loud uncles and fast-talking aunts, she dragged me to a corner where a group of five dark-haired men, four younger and one older with salt-and-pepper hair, stand in a loose cluster.
When we reached the group, Frankie introduced me to them. “These are my brothers—Nicky, Ian, George, Andy and this is my dad, Stavros,” she said, pointing to each man as she rattled off the names. “Guys, this is Clive, the man I’m dating.”
“Call me Mr. Pallas,” Stavros said gruffly, his dark brows snapping together as he took in the age difference between myself and his daughter.
God, I knew what the other man was feeling right now, and being on the flip side of her father’s disapproval gave me so much more clarity about Marcie and Denton’s relationship—and what a complete asshole I’d been for making their lives so difficult. Lesson learned.
Frankie rolled her eyes at her father’s stiff greeting. “Call him Stavros, like everyone else does.”
She turned to me and stood up on tiptoe to plant a gentle kiss on my lips as her brothers and father all gazed at me with murder in their eyes. When she pulled away, her eyes were soft and glowing, but I didn’t miss the amused smirk on her lips.
“I have to go help my mom, and my brothers and dad are clearly dying to have some kind of dick-measuring contest with you. Find me later when you win, okay?”
I swallowed back a chuckle and instead nodded and kissed her one more time, heedless of the audience. “I will.”
I watched her skirt sway gently as she walked away, then turned to my inquisitors. “Okay, guys. I’m ready.”
“Are you Greek?” Stavros asked, his lips pressed together in displeasure. “You don’t look Greek. You just look old.”
I huffed out a laugh, not at all offended when I knew how tough this was for Frankie’s father to accept. “I’m forty-six. Not Greek. Irish and Scottish. Sorry.”
One of the brothers—Nicky, I think—crowded in closer, his eyes full of accusation. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “You’re the one who made her cry.”
I winced, unable to deny that truth. “Yeah, I did. And I try to make it up to her every day, because she didn’t deserve it.”
Ian took a swig of his beer as he eyed me sullenly. “Do you know what a great person she is?”
I started to answer in the affirmative, but he cut me off. “I mean do you really? She’s so fucking smart, and funny, and when she loves somebody, she doesn’t just kind of do it. She does it with her whole heart. And if you break that heart, you’re going to have five very unhappy men to deal with.”
Before I could respond, or reassure them of my intentions, Andy jumped in. “Did you know that she did Nana’s nails every Sunday for years? Nana didn’t even ask. Frankie just noticed that her hands weren’t as steady as they used to be, so she started doing it one Sunday and hardly ever missed a week. She knew Nana liked to look nice, and it mattered to her because it mattered to Nana.”
Through a mouthful of spanakopita, George added, “When I was in seventh grade, some bully stole my lunch. She was only in fourth grade, and she rode her bike to that kid’s house and egged it for me.”
“When my last girlfriend dumped me, she showed up at my house with some ice cream and we watched Ghost and cried like blubbering babies,” Nicky said, tipping his bottle of beer toward me as he told his story. “It was her idea, and you know what? Getting all that emotional shit out helped. And, she never let any of these assholes—" he gestured at his brothers and father “—make fun of me for it.”